


Apple Tree

by Thirsty_Baby



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dark, Family Drama, Family Issues, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kinda, Mother-Son Relationship, Other, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Suicide, Toxic Household
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-25 00:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirsty_Baby/pseuds/Thirsty_Baby
Summary: „Ramsay,“ she called after the boy, shielding her eyes from the sun, the weather reminding her of the day her son was conceived.The boy turned around for a moment, sending chills down her spine.It wasn’t that the boy was ugly looking, quite the opposite. The boy had curly black hair and pale skin, cheeks plump but already defined by the strong jawline that he inherited from his father. It were his eyes that scared her.No child should have these kind of eyes, glassy and terror inflicting. No, children were supposed to have big, beautiful eyes that would radiate the sun and happiness.Children were supposed to smile a warm smile, a smile that would fill their mother’s heart with joy and happiness, not a sadistic smile of a cold blooded monster.It was definitely her fault, she thought, feverishly and terrified.





	Apple Tree

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ!!!  
I haven't read the books yet, so this is based solely on the show.  
This is a story about Ramsay and his mother, about the hardships of a rape victim having to raise the child on her own.  
For the purpose of the story I've only kept Ramsay and his mother, who I've decided to keep nameless, as the main characters.  
MENTIONS OF RAPE, SUICIDE AND VIOLENCE TOWARDS ANIMALS. READ WITH CAUTION.  
Please pardon me some mistakes, it was way too late to write something.

She was exhausted after hours of giving birth, it has come to a point where all she longed for was death. 

The pregnancy hasn't been easier either, but giving birth to the "little bastard monster" as she not so lovingly called the baby, nearly killed her. 

It was like the Gods wanted her to pay for all her sins. The baby didn't want to leave her body, neither herbs helped, nor the hot water that the old midwife provided her with. She just wanted to die. She just wanted for it to be over.

It ended unexpectedly, and heaven took over body, the sudden release, the sudden lack of pain made her fell back into the sweat drenched pillow, her lips bloody from screaming and biting, face pale, eyes glassy.

She wasn't dead, but it felt like it. 

A piercing scream rippled through the air. It lasted a few seconds, but it was chilling. 

She turned her head, looking at the old woman who packed her baby into white linen, previously wiping it off, blood sticking to its skin like it was meant to stay there. 

"G-give him to me," the young woman whispered, raising a pale, shaky hand towards the child. 

She didn't know whether it was a boy or a girl, but she was certain it had to be a boy. A strong, healthy boy. 

The old woman turned around and carried the baby to his mother, her lips pursed, overall looking doubtful and nervous.

She placed the baby onto the woman’s chest, and stepped back, watching them closely. 

The baby was heavy, the young mother noted. 

She brushed the white linen away from her baby's face, seeing only the few dark strands of hair at first.

And then she fell into a silent shock, face filled with terror, mouth agape in a soundless scream. 

The baby’s eyes were the eyes of a cold blooded... something. Soldier, Killer, Monster...

They were colorless, like the northern sky during winter, radiating the freezing cold, she felt goosebumps riding up her body. Two dirty ice chips.

The baby stared at her, like he's already lived a life, with knowledge, amusement and something that she registered as a strong thirst for blood. 

Those were the same eyes that stared at her on that damned day, her husband's body swaying above them, the sun blinding her even through the clouds, but the worst of all it were the eyes of the Lord taking her innocence, breaking her apart. 

The baby had Lord Roose Bolton's eyes, cunning and bloodthirsty. 

"What shall his name be?" The voice of the old woman sounded as if she was underwater. 

The young mother stuttered some nonsense, trying to stop herself from throwing the baby off her. 

The old midwife leaned in, her destroyed hearing unable to understand the mother. 

"Sorry, dearest, I can't hear you?"

"R-Ramsay. Ramsay. His name is Ramsay.“

***

Maybe it was her fault he grew up this way, she noted with a hint of pain, as she watched the boy play in the field, his games looking more like horrid battles her dead husband used to tell her about, than childish fun.

But she couldn’t have expected anything else, considering who the boy’s father was. 

„Ramsay,“ she called after the boy, shielding her eyes from the sun, the weather reminding her of the day her son was conceived. 

The boy turned around for a moment, sending chills down her spine. 

It wasn’t that the boy was ugly looking, quite the opposite. The boy had curly black hair and pale skin, cheeks plump but already defined by the strong jawline that he inherited from his father. It were his eyes that scared her. 

No child should have these kind of eyes, glassy and terror inflicting. No, children were supposed to have big, beautiful eyes that would radiate the sun and happiness. 

Children were supposed to smile a warm smile, a smile that would fill their mother’s heart with joy and happiness, not a sadistic smile of a cold blooded monster. 

It was definitely her fault, she thought, feverishly and terrified. 

She wouldn’t hold the boy, she wouldn’t kiss him. When he’d scrape his knee, she’d feel some sort of sick satisfaction, like she actually wanted the boy to feel pain, maybe even to die. 

She vividly remembered that day Ramsay fell from a tree. The boy was a baby back then, not older than three of four. He climbed the tree, and lost balance, falling down. 

He never cried as a baby. Not even when his teeth started scraping at his gums. He’d make a sound from time to time, but usually he’d stay silent. She’d even forget he was there sometimes.

So when she heard a few sobs from outside, her heart dropped. Not from sorrow for her bruised son, but rather from excitement and joy. 

She rushed outside, finding Ramsay curled up bellow the apple tree, grasping his arm. 

He raised his eyes at her, teary and red, bottom lip trembling. For the first time he seemed like a little kid, for the first time he was just a little baby, hurt and longing for comfort. 

They just stared at each other for a few moments, Ramsay silently sobbing on the ground, she standing in the doorway, unable to breathe. 

Then she just turned around and went back inside, ignoring the shaky breathes behind her back. She just didn’t know how to help him or what to do. 

A sick, disgusting voice inside her mind whispered, you don’t want to help him.

They never spoke about it, but she was sure Ramsay remembered this incident as well. 

The woman shook her head, letting out a shaky breathe she didn’t realize she was holding, and grabbed the basket with her knitting utensils. 

„Ramsay we’re going home!“ She yelled, a little bit too hysteric, but there wasn’t anybody else who could hear her anyway. 

The boy stopped and slowly turned around, looking at his mother closely.

He dropped his head, holding back emotions that seemed foreign to her, and stomped over to the woman, his lips a thin line. 

She knew he hated obeying. Ramsay started living after his own rules a long time ago, and no matter how often she’d yell at him to listen to her and to obey, the moment he’d raise his cold, distant eyes at her, she wanted to run away and hide, to never see this… child of her’s again. 

They walked home in silence, as they always did. 

She's always dreamt of a family, ever since she was a little girl. She dreamt of children and of a good husband. When she’d pictured moments like these, walking home after letting the kids play at the field, she’d always imagine laughter, happiness and beautiful babies clinging to her dress, telling her about out the flowers they’ve picked or some other childish nonsense. 

Instead she had the boy walking next to her, distant and foreign. 

At night she’d sometimes look at him. At his face, so peaceful and yet is cold. Sleeping Ramsay was the closest she could have to dead Ramsay. 

***

„Ramsay, you little bastard, you can’t just kill innocent animals!“ 

She was panically screaming, she wanted to kick and to throw around plates and chairs. She wanted to punch that blankly satisfied expression off her bastard’s face. 

The poor neighbor’s cat. The animal’s fur was soaked in blood, mutilated body on display for all to see. Some parts of its skin were flayed, some paws were reduced to nothing but bone. She had to barf the moment she saw the remains of what once was a cat.

Ramsay stared at her, lips pressed together, his face seemed ghostly pale in the badly lit room. 

She’s lost control over the kid a long time ago, but it was only now that she understood just how deep she’s allowed him to submerge. 

The neighbors weren’t even mad, they were exhausted, they were heartbroken. The times when they’d be mad at Ramsay have long passed. First it was harmless, boyish misbehavior, some fooling around with the chicken, a few broken windows, destroyed herbs and plants. 

But this was the first time Ramsay had went that far, and she knew he wouldn’t stop there. The whole village knew it. 

Most villagers were terrified of Ramsay, some spat after him when he’d pass them, and some didn’t care. 

„What were you thinking?!“ She exclaimed, unsure whether she actually wanted to know an answer. 

The boy was only eleven, he was a kid, and yet he’d curse like a sailor, chase after girls and wouldn’t spare anybody, not even his mother, from his snarky remarks.

But right now he kept quiet.

She knew Ramsay hated being yelled at. He hated asking twice, he hated not getting what he wanted, and he hated being yelled at. 

But her nerves were giving up, and, yes, she knew it was wrong, but that anger and terror overspilled and she kept on yelling. 

She screamed things she ended up regretting in the end. 

He kept quiet. Quiet and terrifying. 

She called him a useless piece of shit, she called him a goddamned bastard, she told him how she’s always wished he would’ve died in her womb, she ended up hitting him with balled fists, hot tears pooling down her cheeks.

He didn’t even block her blows. He just stared off, only flinching sometimes when she’d say something incredibly hurtful, or when her fists caught some random bruise on his body. 

Eventually, the anger inside her died down, leaving her feeling empty and lost, helpless. 

Ramsay wasn’t even crying, he kept on staring at the floor in front of him, dark locks hanging down onto his face. 

She broke down in front of him, grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him close, holding him, seemingly for the first time. 

His body stiffened, unsure of what to do. 

She noted, with deep sorrow, that he was touch deprived. His hands didn’t even reach out to hold her as well, simply because they weren’t used to that. They were grasping the edge of the seat, knuckles turned white. 

„I’m sorry, baby, I’m so, so sorry,“ she cried, sobbing into the boy’s shoulder. 

She wasn’t sorry for Ramsay. She was sorry for herself. 

She was sorry for how her life turned out to be in the end, how she was stuck in an unbreakable cycle with a monster that she has created herself. 

They never spoke about this again, and she promised herself, she wouldn’t ever allow him to see her weakness again, promised herself, he wouldn’t ever witness her like that, crying and shaking. 

She promised herself, no matter what, she wouldn’t ever hold him like that again. 

***

The last time she’s ever seen Ramsay was a warm, autumn day. 

He stood in front of her, broad shoulders, stubble, his eyes the same as the first time she saw them, cold and cunning. 

Ramsay grew up to be a fairly handsome young man, but girls still avoided him. Well, who in their right mind would want someone like Ramsay near them?

His expression was unreadable, she couldn’t quite pin it down, whether he was smiling, or whether he was planning to murder her. 

She raised a hand and placed it on his cheek, unsure why she was doing that. But it just felt right to do. 

Ramsay raised an eyebrow at her, but didn’t say anything, probably for the best. Lately, everything he'd say terrified her and made her lose sleep even more. 

For a while she just let the feeling of her sons’t skin soak into the palm of her hand. It was strange to realize that this was the first time she’s ever done that gesture. She’s forgotten the feeling of his skin after she’s stopped bathing him as a kid. 

After a few moments, Ramsay raised his hand and placed it on top of her’s. 

It didn’t feel like she thought it would. 

A lot of sons left their mothers, and she knew it was always very emotional. This felt weirdly formal and unusual for both of them, it felt out of place. 

She pulled back her hand, so did he. 

No word was dropped, he turned around and walked to the door, not even stopping to throw her a last glance when he closed it shut. 

She was incredibly grateful for that. 

***

Years later, when she learned Ramsay has died, her heart stopped.

Not once during these years has she seen him again, has he came to visit. She made sure not even news of Ramsay reached her ears. 

She was free.

That night she dreamt of him, curled up below that apple tree, crying and shaking, only a little baby, her baby that she failed to raise. She woke up in cold sweat, and stared at the ceiling, trying to get rid of the phantom vision of cold, cunning eyes staring back.

In the morning, neighbors came bursting through the door. 

Ramsay has died. Killed by his wife, killed by his hound, nothing remained. 

She couldn’t describe the emotion she felt, the neighbors were staring at her, expecting some sort of triumphant reaction, probably. 

But she felt aching sorrow. 

Her hands were shaking, her eyes were restless, and she looked terrible, but nobody seemed to care, everybody celebrated the death of the bastard of Bolton. 

Once her neighbors left, she broke down crying, hysterically sobbing his name into her pillow, ripped at her hair. She fell to her knees and screamed. 

Helplessly.

Agonizingly. 

Dreadfully. 

Her thoughts kept racing back and fort, from the rare moments they’d laugh together while she’d cook, to the moments she’d scream at him and curse his name.

Ramsay. Her Ramsay was dead. 

The heartless, cold-blooded monster was dead. 

Her little baby, curly haired, blue eyed baby was dead. 

She stumbled to the window, staring outside, everywhere she seemed to look, it was like Ramsay’s eyes were staring back. 

The door opened with a squeak, and she left her house dressed only in a thin nightgown and a woolen shawl. 

The weather was dreadful, freezing cold, a snowstorm. The ice seemed to bite at her skin, the wind howled in her ears. 

That's how my baby cried when he was dying, she though, stumbling through the snowy garden, her feet giving up from the cold and the exhaustion.

She stood below the apple tree, looking up at the high branch Ramsey fell from.

He fingers brushed frozen bark, as if it was Ramsay’s cheek the last time she saw him. She could feel the phantom feeling of his stubble, and the soft curls in the nape of his neck. 

He was her lost child that she killed herself with her own two hands. She never was a mother. She projected her hate onto him, and he ended up paying for it with his mind. 

She fell into the tears again, pressing her body into the tree, going as far as wrapping her arms around it. 

The woman looked up at the branch again, above it the cold, northern sky. 

***

In the morning the neighbors found her hanging from the apple tree, the woolen shawl dropped below her, curled up like a dying animal. 

The rope around her neck was frozen solid to the tree, they could only remove parts of it, half of it remained frozen to the branch. 

They kept it there ever since, cut rope bound to an apple tree branch, as a sign of undying, everlasting love of a mother to her son.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! It was something I've had on my mind for a long time!  
If you've found some mistakes, please do tell me about them.  
Please consider leaving a like and comment.  
Have a nice day, Thirsty_Baby!


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